The Bicycle
The bicycle hangs upside down from a rafter in the garage, plastic red hooks
suspending it by the wheels. A thick coating of dust covers it, so that when I go to lift it
down it is slippy in my hands, and heavier than I remember. I swing it towards the ground,
unhooking one wheel and then the other in a move which was so well practised for a time,
that it comes back instantly. As the wheels hit the ground there is a whumph, as air
between the un-inflated inner tube and the tyre escapes. The chain clangs and cables ping
off the frame as it bounces. A familiar, instantly pleasing sound. Dust motes hang in the
air, suspended in the shaft of light which penetrates into the darkness at the back of the
garage. As I wheel it outside I can feel every bump and imperfection of the rough concrete
floor through the flat tyre.
I saved for a year to buy this bike, telling everyone as I did so that I’d be getting a
new bike soon. It must have become tiresome to listen to. My friend and I used to spend
our Saturdays in the bike shop in the centre of town, tucked away in the most unlikely of
places down one of the ‘entries’ which now are home to ever so fashionable pubs in what
has become the ever so fashionable Cathedral Quarter. Back then it was run down, the
area around High Street in dire need of rejuvenation. We took the train in from the leafy
suburbs, chugging along beside Belfast Lough and into the city, arcing out over the Lagan
Bridge, past the weir and the Waterfront to arrive at Central Station.
The owner of the bike shop was a gruff old man, who sat on a high stool behind the
counter throwing dirty looks at prospective customers. They have since moved on to larger
premises in another part of town, just outside the city centre, but I’ve only been there
once to exchange a poorly-chosen Christmas present. I hated this new shop, the young kids
working there looking at me with contempt - how could someone like me possibly be
interested in riding a bike? The old man is long gone, or at least I assume so. More than his
gaunt face, I remember the hacking cough which could be heard from outside the shop.
The metallic flakes in the blue paint called out to me – I knew it was The One long
before I had ever given thought to a budget. I read reviews in magazines, pleased when it
scored well, dismissive when it didn’t. I wore out three manufacturer’s catalogues that
year as I endlessly thumbed through the range. As I inched towards my savings target, the
new models for the next year came out, and my bike dropped a hundred pounds in price. I
returned the next Saturday, my father in tow to make the purchase. I had enough left over
for a matching helmet and a jersey with the manufacturer’s logo emblazoned large across
the back. I don’t think I actually rode it before I bought it, merely sat on it to check that
the frame was the correct size. I spent the car ride home with my head turned to look out
the back window, my heart racing as each bump in the road saw my new baby shiver on
the bike rack.
I spent all my meagre pocket-money on that bicycle, searching out second-hand
parts, bargains, end-of-season sales. I changed all the contact points so that by the time I
was done, the handlebars, saddle, pedals, tyres and various other bits and pieces not only
fitted me perfectly, they were a reflection of the love and personality that I had put into
my bicycle. After every muddy ride the bike was hosed down, inspected for dings and
chips, dried and oiled. Then it was hefted back up to where it slept, hanging upside down
from the red hooks in our garage.
I had a bad crash one day, doing enough damage that the bike was unrideable for
several weeks, as I saved to buy new cranks. I still feel pain in my right knee from time to
time. I found some second-hand parts, which were a nice upgrade, and fitted them,
anxious to get back out. After several rides I crashed again, the sequence repeating itself
twice until I lost my appetite for broken cranks, mis-threaded pedals, the inevitable face
full of dirt and the empty wallet. At about the same time, I learnt to drive, and the speed
I craved for on my bike was quickly surpassed by mother's Ford Fiesta 1.1, metallic silver,
replete with plastic wheel trims.
For years, that bicycle hung upside in my parents garage, collecting dust. I worked
out recently that it is 14 years old, exactly half my age, but I wouldn’t trade it for any of
the bikes I see ridden about town. Last Christmas, Sam, aged 3 at the time, got his first
real bicycle from Santa. Black, with 12 inch wheels, it has a bright yellow chain guard and
detailing, with a smiling cartoon wasp, stinger extended towards the front of the bike.
Just before his 4th birthday, we took his stabilisers off, and taught him to ride up
and down the long hall in our house. Once he had begun to get the hang of it, but not
without some degree of trepidation, I took him down to the park by the Lough, only to see
him accelerate away from me. The pace at which he sped off took me completely by
surprise, and I could not keep up with him, even at a run. I was bent double laughing from
the sight of his little legs, furiously pedalling, whilst he shouted “Look at me!” at the top
of his voice. His new found speed is the reason I went to find out what state my old bike
was in.
Now, every Saturday the pair of us don our shorts, and Sam puts on his special
robot socks which make him go fast. We load our bikes into the car and head to the park.
Sam goes first, unless there are any dogs, and we speed along the Lough's shore, weaving
in and out of the joggers and dog-walkers. We like going out in the rain, so that there are
plenty of puddles to ride through, the pair of us returning with skunk stripes of dirt up our
backs. We stop for a drink when we start to get tired and turn for home. Our ride always
takes longer than it should, as we go back and forth through the tunnel under the
motorway four, five, six times to hear our echoes bounce back to us. I feel so proud, as
each time we go out we go further, and faster than before.
suspending it by the wheels. A thick coating of dust covers it, so that when I go to lift it
down it is slippy in my hands, and heavier than I remember. I swing it towards the ground,
unhooking one wheel and then the other in a move which was so well practised for a time,
that it comes back instantly. As the wheels hit the ground there is a whumph, as air
between the un-inflated inner tube and the tyre escapes. The chain clangs and cables ping
off the frame as it bounces. A familiar, instantly pleasing sound. Dust motes hang in the
air, suspended in the shaft of light which penetrates into the darkness at the back of the
garage. As I wheel it outside I can feel every bump and imperfection of the rough concrete
floor through the flat tyre.
I saved for a year to buy this bike, telling everyone as I did so that I’d be getting a
new bike soon. It must have become tiresome to listen to. My friend and I used to spend
our Saturdays in the bike shop in the centre of town, tucked away in the most unlikely of
places down one of the ‘entries’ which now are home to ever so fashionable pubs in what
has become the ever so fashionable Cathedral Quarter. Back then it was run down, the
area around High Street in dire need of rejuvenation. We took the train in from the leafy
suburbs, chugging along beside Belfast Lough and into the city, arcing out over the Lagan
Bridge, past the weir and the Waterfront to arrive at Central Station.
The owner of the bike shop was a gruff old man, who sat on a high stool behind the
counter throwing dirty looks at prospective customers. They have since moved on to larger
premises in another part of town, just outside the city centre, but I’ve only been there
once to exchange a poorly-chosen Christmas present. I hated this new shop, the young kids
working there looking at me with contempt - how could someone like me possibly be
interested in riding a bike? The old man is long gone, or at least I assume so. More than his
gaunt face, I remember the hacking cough which could be heard from outside the shop.
The metallic flakes in the blue paint called out to me – I knew it was The One long
before I had ever given thought to a budget. I read reviews in magazines, pleased when it
scored well, dismissive when it didn’t. I wore out three manufacturer’s catalogues that
year as I endlessly thumbed through the range. As I inched towards my savings target, the
new models for the next year came out, and my bike dropped a hundred pounds in price. I
returned the next Saturday, my father in tow to make the purchase. I had enough left over
for a matching helmet and a jersey with the manufacturer’s logo emblazoned large across
the back. I don’t think I actually rode it before I bought it, merely sat on it to check that
the frame was the correct size. I spent the car ride home with my head turned to look out
the back window, my heart racing as each bump in the road saw my new baby shiver on
the bike rack.
I spent all my meagre pocket-money on that bicycle, searching out second-hand
parts, bargains, end-of-season sales. I changed all the contact points so that by the time I
was done, the handlebars, saddle, pedals, tyres and various other bits and pieces not only
fitted me perfectly, they were a reflection of the love and personality that I had put into
my bicycle. After every muddy ride the bike was hosed down, inspected for dings and
chips, dried and oiled. Then it was hefted back up to where it slept, hanging upside down
from the red hooks in our garage.
I had a bad crash one day, doing enough damage that the bike was unrideable for
several weeks, as I saved to buy new cranks. I still feel pain in my right knee from time to
time. I found some second-hand parts, which were a nice upgrade, and fitted them,
anxious to get back out. After several rides I crashed again, the sequence repeating itself
twice until I lost my appetite for broken cranks, mis-threaded pedals, the inevitable face
full of dirt and the empty wallet. At about the same time, I learnt to drive, and the speed
I craved for on my bike was quickly surpassed by mother's Ford Fiesta 1.1, metallic silver,
replete with plastic wheel trims.
For years, that bicycle hung upside in my parents garage, collecting dust. I worked
out recently that it is 14 years old, exactly half my age, but I wouldn’t trade it for any of
the bikes I see ridden about town. Last Christmas, Sam, aged 3 at the time, got his first
real bicycle from Santa. Black, with 12 inch wheels, it has a bright yellow chain guard and
detailing, with a smiling cartoon wasp, stinger extended towards the front of the bike.
Just before his 4th birthday, we took his stabilisers off, and taught him to ride up
and down the long hall in our house. Once he had begun to get the hang of it, but not
without some degree of trepidation, I took him down to the park by the Lough, only to see
him accelerate away from me. The pace at which he sped off took me completely by
surprise, and I could not keep up with him, even at a run. I was bent double laughing from
the sight of his little legs, furiously pedalling, whilst he shouted “Look at me!” at the top
of his voice. His new found speed is the reason I went to find out what state my old bike
was in.
Now, every Saturday the pair of us don our shorts, and Sam puts on his special
robot socks which make him go fast. We load our bikes into the car and head to the park.
Sam goes first, unless there are any dogs, and we speed along the Lough's shore, weaving
in and out of the joggers and dog-walkers. We like going out in the rain, so that there are
plenty of puddles to ride through, the pair of us returning with skunk stripes of dirt up our
backs. We stop for a drink when we start to get tired and turn for home. Our ride always
takes longer than it should, as we go back and forth through the tunnel under the
motorway four, five, six times to hear our echoes bounce back to us. I feel so proud, as
each time we go out we go further, and faster than before.